


As the River Flows

by ClueyLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Death, Depressing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClueyLock/pseuds/ClueyLock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is given the devastating news that his best friend, John Watson, won't be returning home from the war zone. Sherlock decides he wants to live on with his fallen friend I'm a new life.<br/>WARNING: Includes self harm and suicide. May be triggering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the River Flows

Sat on the edge of the bathtub, Sherlock's composure did not once fault as he miserably flicked the blade across his bare wrists, leaving behind a seeping trail of crimson blood and jagged flesh. While both his face and his eyes remained emotionless, his heart was pumping fast. Not from the slits he was creating upon himself, or even the loss of blood straight from the vein, but from recalling Mycroft's voice as he had announced the shooting of John Watson over the phone.

A little insensitive, anyone would have thought, declaring the apparent end of one's friend over a mobile device, and not in person.  
But who would want to be in Sherlock Holmes' presence, when he heard such news? Mycroft certainly knew better.

"Sherlock, there's something we must discuss." Mycroft had said, the tension in his words had threatened to crack. "About Doctor Watson."  
Sherlock merely sniffed unpleasantly at this, "Look, Mycroft, he'll be back from Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever he's gone, soon. I can take care of myself!"  
There had been a long, deliberate pause from the other Holmes' brother before he had replied: "I'm sorry to say this, Sherlock, I really am. But Doctor Watson has been shot."

* * * *

Sherlock let out a heart-wrenching scream, dropping the razor's blade into the bloodstained bathtub. He grasped at his hair, pulling hard and rocked himself backwards and forwards, screaming into the emptiness that was the flat of 221B Baker Street. After everything they had been through together - being drugged by taxi drivers, having bombs being strapped to their chests by the poolside, even going through a torturous six months of Sherlock faking his death to save John - and John gets snuffed out from existence by...a bullet.  
Sherlock Holmes was a man known for his intelligence and lack of care and understanding for the rest of humanity. He was known for not knowing how to love; and yet there he was, broken and crumpled on the floor. 

John Watson had brought him to his knees.

Lifting a delicately shivering crimson-inked hand to the sink, the consulting detective dragged himself unsteadily upright. Looking into the mirror, a pale-faced man with outrageously hollow cheeks stared back at him. He barely recognised himself anymore.  
Picking up the razor from the tub, accidentally cutting himself (not that he noticed) in the process, he held it up to the mirror and allowed the sunlight to shine freely off of the glossy metal. Apparently, such beauty could bring such pain.  
John's loss brought him pain. It brought him a lot of it, too. Too much to bear, he thought.

"Why did you leave me?" His tenor tone croaked out to nobody in particular. Then, "John, come back."

* * * *

It was twenty minutes before Sherlock had gathered up his remaining morsels of energy and had headed out, still bloodied, into the living room.  
Sherlock headed to take up his violin, but made a last minute diversion to the door, making a beeline for his coat.

John always loved his coat. There was something about it that he always was attracted to; the cologne transferred from Sherlock's body? The ridiculous collar that stuck up around his neck around his crazy dark curls? Sherlock never got the chance to ask.

It took merely ten minutes to take the cab to Hyde park. Still, Sherlock chose to walk the thirty minute journey there as he contemplated his options. Regrettably, John was not there to comfort him and tell him everything would be okay. Then again, if John was there, Sherlock wouldn't be in the need of care and reassurance.  
Rarely was he ever in such a state.

Sherlock took a shortcut, heading over a bridge to skip the main road to Hyde park when it finally hit him: he could be with John Watson again. Slowly, calmly, he turned on his heel and thrust himself upon the railing. Glaring down at the disgusting litter-filled water below, his face softened. He would be with John soon.  
Very little fear pooled in his eyes as he took a fresh razor blade out from his pocket, but there was still mild hints of upset. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he lifted the sharpened object to his throat. 

Sure, it was broad daylight, but why should he care if the minds of the passers-by are scarred with the image of a tall and lean man slashing his throat before falling down into the waters? Their minds were probably just funny and boring, anyway.

Taking one last glance at the waters, he pressed the metal into his neck, slicing across his jugular. The cut wasn't as deep as he'd have liked it to have been, but the waters should take him if all else fails.  
Screams of the civilians around him cut through the air like a knife, ironically enough. Mothers covered their children's eyes and fathers pulled out their phones, rapidly calling 9-9-9.  
A family. John was Sherlock's family - apart from Mycroft. He never had liked his brother that much. He was always being referred to as 'brother mine', and he had never liked the possessive pronoun of 'mine'. Sherlock belonged to nobody but John.  
John. John Watson. He could almost hear his voice amongst the crowd, bawling his name. Why was he shouting so? Why was his voice full of panic and fear?  
"It's okay, John. I'll be with you soon." Sherlock barely managed to force the words out of his mouth.  
Turning his back to the railing, he closed his eyes - and leant backward. 

Falling was an interesting sensation; there's nothing stable or secure beneath you, all the while gravity is just pulling you further down. Sherlock was neither stable nor secure, so this was an ideal way to go.

His body smashed into the rippling beauty of the river, refusing to resist as the chilling cold lapped up his mass. The near-fatal cut supplied by the razor stung sharply against the salt, causing his body to quiver slightly. His line of sight began decreasing, his heartbeat slowing considerably. 

This is it, he thought. This is the last step to seeing John. I promised I'd protect you. I failed you, but I will make it right. I will see you soon and I'm sorry.

He struggled to even think those words to himself, before the blurriness of the water clouding his eyes, as his world suddenly faded to black. His pale hand loosened its grip, and the shining piece of razor in his palm sunk slowly to the riverbed, leaving behind a faint train of red.

* * * *

"Sherlock Holmes!" A panic-stricken man raced down to the river side. He was wearing a soldier medics uniform, his face sported thick smudges of mud and a fresh bullet wound marked his left shoulder, as if he'd just returned from the war zone. The bandages he wore were soaked in his blood, and he was clearly not fit to jump in the river after the crazy man.  
But he did, and somehow, he knew his name.  
Crashing into the river, the brave soldier dived down, ignoring the salty sting in his eyes as he desperately searched for the consulting detectives body. Eventually, after nearly running out of breath himself, his hands locked around the waist of a drowned man. Rushing to the surface, he held the detectives head in his hands, with effortless tears running down his face.

Though that's all he ever did find - a body.

"SHERLOCK!" He screamed, dragging the lifeless and stilled wreck that was Sherlock's body out of the water. "SHERLOCK, OPEN YOUR EYES!" He begged.

People crowded around, watching, as the soldier cried over the fallen detective. After a few agonisingly long minutes, a medium-sized man came and laid a hand on the soldier's non-injured shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, John."

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued.


End file.
